A (Redwall) Christmas Carol
by Randomstorywryter
Summary: A Dickens-esque Christmas story that takes place in Redwall. Yup.


_A/N: Sorry about the...ummm...late update, but I was just being lazy. I suppose that is excusable (sort of) this time of year. I hope this does not disappoint!_

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Martin trudged to his gatehouse, the biting winter wind blowing hard against him. He was wearing a long, thick, winter habit that came down to his footpaws, with a hooded cloak that he was wearing over his head. Snow was blown into his face, all the way up until he reached the door.

He was just coming back from supper in the abbey, which had consisted of scones, hot tea, fresh loaves of bread, and hot vegetable soup. Though Gonff, Columbine, Skipper, Lady Amber, and Bella had all implored him to stay inside, he had politely declined, saying that he was better off alone. What he had really meant was that nobeast would have wanted him to be moping around the abbey, and he didn't want anybeast to try to comfort him. It wasn't their business if he was upset, and they couldn't do anything, anyway. After all, it wasn't as if they could restore creatures to life.

He opened the door to his gatehouse and went inside, hurriedly closing the door behind himself. He shed his cloak and brushed the snow off of his habit and out of his face. Hanging the cloak up neatly on a hook, he headed over to his desk, where he promptly sat down, took up a quill, and began to write.

He loved writing, telling tales; something about making his characters' lives better made him feel better, too. Still, he knew that no amount of writing and storytelling would ever fill the void that Rose had left when she had been torn from him. He doubted anything could.

He stopped and thought for a minute, pondering a metaphor that had just sprang to his mind. The act of Rose's separation from him was not unlike a barbed arrow that somebeast might violently pull out of his flesh. It would leave a gaping, ugly wound that would never fully heal. Yes, he thought. It really is quite the same.

He resumed writing. It was odd, how the stories seemed to spring to his mind. He wanted to write down as many of them as he could, incorporating his learned wisdom that had been forced upon him into the stories, that others might never have to experience his heartache. He knew it wouldn't help everybeast, or very many creatures at all (the only creature who knew he wrote was Gonfelet, and that was only because Martin told all of his stories to the little mouseling); however, one creature was enough for the warriormouse. It was at least one life who wouldn't experience the pain that he had been unfortunate enough to bear.

Sighing, he lay his quill down and stood up from his seat. He had hit writer's block again. He headed up to his room, to get his sword. Practicing with the blade always freed his mind to think on other things.

As he walked up to his room, he heard something. It sounded familiar, like the clink of chain mail on plate mail as a soldier marches to battle. He paused, but he heard no more, so he started to walk again. The moment he did so, the clinking started again. Nervous, the warrior hastened his pace up to his room. There was a small window there, and he could look outside to see if there was anything outside that could explain the strange noise, though in his heart he knew nothing outside could be making that noise. The sound was coming from behind him. He got to the door of his bedroom, and reached for the handle. Suddenly his warrior's senses went wild. Something was amiss.

Intrigued, Martin didn't open the door. Instead, he pressed his ear against it and listened. There was no sound coming from the room, not even the sound of breathing. Nobeast was in his room. He waited a moment or two, and then threw the door open wide and barreled in, attempting to catch whoever, if anybeast, it was by surprise. He cast his eye about him, taking in the scene before him. It was exactly as he had left it.

His senses had been wrong.

He was glad that they had been, but they were never wrong. Nervous still, he went over to his bedstand and picked up his sword. Then his eyes locked on the pommel. There, where a simple ruby-red stone should have been, was a ruby-red image of his own face. Then he looked closer, and realized that it was not his face, but rather, his father's. Then the image spoke to him. "Martin...don't use this blade..."

Martin dropped the sword in shock, and turned to rush out of his room, but the door swung shut of its own accord. He turned around, and there, floating before him, looking very much like a strange misty formation, was the spirit of his father.

The ghost settled onto the floor and chuckled. "I apologize about the dramatic entrance, Martin, but as a deadbeast I'm not likely to have much fun otherwise."

Martin sighed and shook his head. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"Oh great."

Luke laughed. "No, no, nothing as bad as all that!" The ghostly mousewarrior laid a paw on his son's shoulder. "It is serious, though. I know what's in your heart regarding your maiden. Don't do it, Martin."

"Great. Now my own father wants to keep me from her."

"I'm glad to see you won't deny your intent, Martin." Luke smiled. "You are wrong, though, and that's why I'm here. I have arranged a few things to show you what you are missing out on."

"What sort of things?" Martin asked warily, all too aware of what his father might be referring to.

"Oh, you'll see." Luke chuckled. "Tonight you will be visited by three creatures from your past, each with a different message for you. Listen to them well, Martin. It would benefit you greatly."

Martin cocked his head, intrigued. "Who are they?"

"It's a surprise."

"Can I know when to expect them?"

"I suppose so." Luke replied. "They'll be here around midnight."

"Out of curiosity," Martin began, looking down at his footpaws, and then back up at his father. "will Rose be...?"

"No."

The living warriormouse looked quite dejected at this news. Chuckling, Luke patted his son's shoulder. "Don't worry, Martin, you'll be fine. Now, if you'll excuse me..." The ghostly warriormouse faded like mist under the noonday sun, leaving Martin alone to ponder what was going to happen.

Martin sat in his bedroom, a candle flickering on his bedstand, casting a surprisingly warm glow around the small, comfortable room. His eyes were looking out the small window that showed outside the wall, focusing on the moon. It was in its highest position of the night. Midnight.

He sighed and snuggled down into his covers. Maybe his father had decided against the visits. Then again, he thought ruefully, his father never retracted anything that he said. It was as he was thinking this that he heard a wind blow through the small window. With a whistle, snow came inside his room. Or, at least, what appeared to be snow. When he looked closer, he realized that it seemed to be a misty, intangible substance. The heat from the candle slowly melted it, turning it into something quite foggy and not unlike mist. Then the mist coalesced into the form of a squirrel. A smiling squirrel.

"Hi Martin."

The warriormouse instantly recognized the voice of an old friend, and got up out of bed. "Felldoh!" he exclaimed, thrusting a paw forward. The ghostly squirrel chuckled and shook Martin's paw.

"Aye, Martin. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Missed you, you rogue." Martin replied, as he let go and looked his old friend over. "Did you really have to have such an original entrance?"

Felldoh chuckled again and shook his head. "As I'm sure your father told you, dramatic entrances are really the only way us deadbeasts can have any fun."

Martin snorted. "I wouldn't call that a dramatic entrance. Still, I suppose I can expect the other two visitors to do the same thing?"

"Undeniably." Felldoh grinned. Then he took Martin's paw. "You ready to go?"

"Go where...?" Martin asked, but by then the ghostly squirrel had swept him out the tiny little window and they were soaring through the sky. "Wh-what's going on, Felldoh?" Martin asked, his eyes wide and locked on the ground far below.

"I'm taking you to a place in your past, Martin." the squirrel replied, a giant grin on his face. "Or, more specifically, a winter in your past."

They flew on for a good ten minutes before they settled down on the ground. The warriormouse cast his gaze about him, surprised at the sudden amount of daylight that had appeared. "Where are we? Or should I be asking when are we?"

"We are twelve seasons in the past, Martin. Remember this?" Felldoh gestured around himself. "Does it look familiar?"

After considering his memories for a moment, Martin suddenly realized where he was. "This is Marshank...but where's the fortress?"

For an answer, Felldoh pointed to the north, where a ragtag band of armed vermin and poorly clothed, chained woodlanders coming their way. Martin's paw automatically went for his sword, but Felldoh stayed him. "They cannot see us, Martin." he whispered. "Nor can they hear us. This is all in your past. Mine too."

Martin removed his paw from his sword's hilt and watched, intrigued. The vermin crew walked until they were about fifty paces from where he and Felldoh stood, and then the stoat, who was obviously the leader, raised a paw and called for a halt.

Martin instantly recognized the voice, and his blood began to boil with hatred. It was Badrang.

The stoat, completely unaware of his ghostly watchers, shouted out, "Make camp here. As for the slaves, make sure that they can't escape. We wouldn't want to lose any of them."

A fox who Martin recognized as Skalrag stepped forward and asked, "Sir, what are we doing here, if I may ask? We have a fair amount of daylight left before we have to settle down for the night."

Badrang answered in the way Martin knew he would. The stoat grabbed the fox's ear and pinched it between his claws. "Dolt, look around you! Isn't this a perfect spot to spend the night? I plan to settle here permanently. Tomorrow," he continued in a louder voice, addressing the slaves in a speech that Martin remembered with a strange sort of clarity, "we will begin construction of our fort. You will fell the trees using axes we will give you, under guards armed with longbows. That way anybeast who fights with the axes will be punished with what he deserves." Martin's lips curled into a snarl. He wished dearly that he could rush forward and destroy his enemy right now, and free everybeast who was in chains, but he knew he couldn't. Then he felt Felldoh's paw on his shoulder.

"Martin, this is just as hard for me as for you. Now, see if you can find yourself."

The warriormouse did as he was bidden, quickly locating himself in the mass of slaves. "Now what?" he asked.

"What do you see on your face?"

"Determination." the warrior replied. "Fury. A desire to murder that horrible tyrant. Why?"

"Look deeper." Felldoh urged, avoiding the question. "What else do you see?"

Martin strained his eyes and indeed saw something else. "I see a passion. An urge to survive."

"There you go." Felldoh grinned. "Ask yourself where that went. Then find out if you want it back."

"I don't." Martin replied. "I want Rose."

Felldoh chuckled. "I never said that you couldn't have her and not survive."

"What do you mean by that?" Martin asked, cocking his head and staring intensely at the squirrel.

Without another word, Felldoh took Martin's paw and their surroundings changed. Instantly Martin recognized where he was. "Kotir..." he breathed.

"Yes, Martin. Kotir. Come." Felldoh gestured, and the squirrel walked along and down from the parade grounds where they had been standing in, heading for the fortress itself. The moment Martin was inside, he saw a sight that made him smile grimly. He saw himself being dragged by vermin up the stairs into Verdauga's bedchambers, fighting, headbutting, and biting all the way. Martin wanted to follow, but Felldoh held him back. "Listen." was all the squirrel said.

Martin did. After a minute or two, he heard an all-too-familiar snap. He heard nothing for a moment or two longer, and then he saw himself being dragged back down the stairs and into the dungeon. This time, though, his face was covered in determination and stubborn fury.

Martin wasn't slow. He knew at once why Felldoh had brought him here. "Seasons, is this all because I just wanted to practice my sword forms?"

"No, Martin. It's because of the sorrow in your heart and your desire to end everything. If your father had allowed you to grab that sword, you would have ended your life soon after ending your sword forms. Don't try to argue." Felldoh added as he saw Martin take a breath to talk back. "It would have happened, even if you weren't planning it."

"Tell me, Felldoh, please," Martin began. "will I ever be allowed to be with her again?"

Felldoh smiled. "That is entirely up to you, Martin. Now, come with me. I have one more thing to show you."

Their surroundings changed again. Now they were standing in a dungeon cell, one that Martin recognized easily. In front of the two ghostly watchers was a younger version of Martin. He had been sitting in the cell for months now, on bread and water; that much was obvious. Yet he still very much looked like a warrior, for he had not lost his musculature, nor the fire in his eyes. "I suppose you want me to see the determination in my face?" the ghostly Martin asked, looking at his companion.

"No, Martin, I do not." Felldoh replied coolly. "What I want to know is what you were thinking."

"I was livid about my father's sword." Martin answered, a grim look on his face. "Yet I was also pleased that it was gone. I had taken that sword in exchange for Rose, an exchange I wish dearly could be reversed."

"You've made that quite clear, Martin." Felldoh replied, his tone soothing.

"I'm afraid we have to go now." Felldoh continued. "Or rather, I have to go. I have nothing more to show you."

The squirrel laid a paw on Martin's shoulder. "Goodbye, old friend."

"Goodbye, Felldoh." Martin whispered.

Then he sat up.

He was in the gatehouse. In bed. Alone.

"A...a dream?" Martin asked, confused. He looked around. Nothing in the room had changed. The candle was still glowing away, and from the amount of it that had melted the mousewarrior guessed he had not been asleep for very long. Gingerly, he laid back down and closed his eyes. Then he remembered. His father had said that there would be three visitors. So far he had only met one.

That meant that there were two more visitors to go.


End file.
